Lullaby for a Battlefield
by Polly Little
Summary: "It'll stop hurting soon, I promise." As the day drew on, Prussia realised that the Holy Roman Empire wasn't long for this world.


_Lullaby for a Battlefield_

As the day drew on, Prussia realised that the Holy Roman Empire wasn't long for this world.

He'd been in denial too long – he couldn't imagine a world without his little brother tugging on his coattails and ordering him to slow down, didn't want to imagine it – but the evidence was staring him right in the face, and it was doing more harm than good to keep ignoring it.

He didn't know what to do. He didn't even know if there would be a body to bury – would that be worse, to carry back a coffin that was empty? – didn't know what was supposed to happen to people like them when they died.

Holy Rome barely knew how people like them were supposed to live.

He thought fleetingly of a child in a green dress waving off the soldiers, and the soft smile upon his brother's face when he'd turned, once, and waved back. He'd been happy, then. Not now, not anymore – who could be so cruel as to ask a child to die with a smile on his face? – but he had been happy for a time, and that had to be important.

Outside the shadows lengthened and the sun began to sink, but inside the tent the lamp flickered away as steadfastly as ever, fighting a chill that Prussia couldn't get rid of.

"Gilbert?" A tiny voice croaked. "It hurts, Gilbert, it _hurts."_

Prussia leant forward over the bed, wanting to offer comfort but too brash and awkward to know how. He had to try, though.

"It's alright," he shushed, ignoring how much it wasn't. "It's alright, Heinrich, I'm here, it's alright."

Too weak to sit up, Holy Rome craned his neck to peer into the shadows lurking in the tent corners, watching and waiting for an army that didn't need to touch him to hurt him. "They keep coming," he whispered – or maybe he said it, his voice wasn't strong enough to tell, and that broke what little heart Gilbert had left. "Why do they keep coming? I want them to stop, Gilbert. When will they stop?"

Prussia bit his lip, squeezing the tiny hand dangling out of the bed in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "They'll stop soon."

Holy Rome nodded, the childish gesture making him look even younger than he was. "Promise?"

"I promise," he said, knowing full well that he had no way of keeping it. "It'll stop – it'll stop hurting soon. You'll feel better then."

Holy Rome nodded again, slowly, then yawned, exhausted from fighting an invisible battle. His eyes were trusting beneath drooping eyelids, and the sight of him so vulnerable made something in Prussia's lungs pull tight. Suddenly he couldn't breathe properly, and he had to swallow back a sob. Tears wouldn't help this situation any.

He didn't know what would. He was supposed to be the protector, the fighter, and he'd failed already. How was he supposed to fix the situation without making it worse?

Maybe he wasn't supposed to fix it. Maybe he just needed to make it easier for Holy Rome.

With that thought in mind, Prussia began to sing his little brother a lullaby. His voice was rough and uncertain, better suited for a battlefield than a nursery, but what it lacked in quality it made up for in warmth and genuine emotion. He might never be a professional, but he finally managed to coax Holy Rome to sleep when the sun was just a lonely slither on the horizon.

Even in sleep, Holy Rome's face was still twisted in pain. Prussia had done what he could – they all had – but there was a point when there was nothing more to be done. Yet Prussia couldn't accept this. Looking at the Nation asleep next to him – only a child, and never more than a child for the rest of forever – he knew that if Heinrich died, then Gilbert would too, and he couldn't live like that. He refused to.

He'd bring him back, he vowed. However long it took, whatever he would have to do, he would do it. This wasn't the end, because what was the point? No little brother of his was going to die in a musty tent on the corner of a battlefield. It just wasn't logical.

Besides, he'd made a promise. And Prussia always kept his promises.

 **A/n: Written for Caesar's Palace shipping week, and intended as a prequel to my story Eavesdropping.**


End file.
